Point of No Return
by bre.laverne
Summary: "I volunteer as tribute." The son of a winner, Dean knows what volunteering means. And yet, when Sam's name is called he doesn't hesitate to volunteer, spinning himself into a evanescent world of blood and riches. Win or lose, he knows nothing will ever be the same.
1. Hero

"I volunteer as tribute" the words dropped from his lips, cracking the pained silence with a quiet anguish.

"Dean, no!" Sam protested slamming himself into the guards hauling Dean away like he weighed nothing. Dean met Sam's eyes, resignation hidden in

their gloom. His back tight as he stalked to the stage, guards half dragging him along. His hazel eyes were unblinking as they ripped from Sam's,

boring into the ground in front of him. He'd heard the stories, seen his fathers nightmares, sheets ripped from the bed, covered in the sweat and

tears of a waking nightmare,. Dean hardly noticed as he stood in front of the crowd, though his body began to vibrate, bile clawing at his throat as

the weight of his actions hung low in his stomach. Shoving his hands low in the pockets of his jeans, he raised his eyes to the crowd. To their merit

they had remained silent after his shout, locked in pitied silence. Avoiding Sammy's eyes he scanned the crowd, avoiding Effie and the other tribute,

soaking in his last look at his home.

_Not that there was much to look at, the flat paths of grey dirt, hardened by hundreds of feet, a shit ton of mine dust crammed everywhere, an indelible mark _

_of the district. rickety houses, rickety people, a rickety mine that killed more people each year. A shitbin. This place is the shitbin of the districts, barely _

_enough to call home, a grimy dot on a map, but its home_

Dean remained silent, stoic in the chill, his quick breaths the only outward sign of any disturbance.

"Congratulations District 12, tributes Dean Winchester and Cassandra Rooke on their ascension into the capital to celebrate the 74th annual Hunger

Games!" Again to their credit, the crowd did not roar at her speech. Sam caught Dean's attention, a quick flutter of his hands as he kissed three

fingers before raising them into the air, a solemn gesture, and though his hand shook, he kept it there, as slowly, solemnly, each member of the

crowd copied his gesture. Even children too young to understand copied him, the tangy vibration of sacrifice heavy on the tense air. A gasp flew from

Effie, who stood motionless, prone on the stage, her hands gripping at her fluorescent blue dress, clasping a tit as if squeezing it could wring out the

words to say. Instead she nodded, the blue butterflies attached to her hair bobbing as she moved. Dean scuffed his feet, pink touching his cheeks at

the stares.

_they'd been kept apart as children, living in the winners fenced in shit glory. their riches nothing next to the fog and gloom. John had trained them to hunt, _

_and to take care of themselves in the shadowy courtyard of the winners village, his mouth sewn in a grim line, until night had spun itself into day._

Dean stood motionless on the stage, his hands shoved roughly in his pockets, quivering next to a willowy girl who looked no older than 16, though

Dean was hardly a year older than she looked. Effie retreated slowly into the stone building that lay formidably in the square, a plastic smile melting

on her stiff face.

Guards escorted Dean and Cassandra through the steel doors, slamming them with a finite crack, the noise sending Sam into a flurry as he slammed

through the crowd, a hoarse scream ripping itself out of his throat as he stormed the steps in a panic,his jacket hanging open as he pounded on the

doors. The crowd remained, silent, watching in tribute. Pity hung, sickly sweet on the air as Sam pounded the doors, the crack of his knuckles on the

hard steel the only sound as he fought for air amidst guttural sobs. The crowd winced as blood became visible on the doors, Sam's hands still

pounding relentlessly on the doors, his voice torn from his body until it was gone. The front row could hardly hear the hoarse "Dean" emanating from

Sam.

Sam still pounding, the crowd split suddenly, opening to let a man through.

John strode swiftly through the gap, hands folded in his jacket. He stood at the edge of the steps, watching Sam slam at the unforgiving doors.

"Sam" His voice grated harshly at the air. Sam froze, his mangled hand still hanging in the air.

The silence was cold, like sandpaper on a raw nerve. The air strained with the painful force of the two, no one risking a breath in the unfurling sting,

no one daring to breathe in the bitter air. Sam's fist fell, cracking against the steel as he slammed to his knees, shaking in the chill.

"Sam" John repeated, his sandpaper voice unforgiving. He remained still, his cold demeanor statuesque. Like an ice sculpture his features were

frozen, an angry grimace marring his scraggly cheeks. He stood, unforgiving, his stance cold, feet apart, arms crossed until Sam had descended the

step to stand in front of him.

Wordlessly, John turned to stalk back down the line of people, Sam following him, hunched like a kicked dog, emanating raw agony as he shuffled out

of the courtyard. The crowd stayed locked together until they disappeared, then silently began to dissipate. The crowd remained silent, twitching like

a mass of bees, unnatural in their silent movement. The soldiers exchanged looks, hoisting their weapons as if cold steel could cut through the fizzing

tension still crawling between the silent people, anchoring on the dark edges of nightmares and angry hearts, stored away in whatever dark,

wretched place subjugated people shove their misery and hatred into, boiling at the raw, unhindered agony.

If his brother could be torn away, it could be my daughter, or my brother, knowledge that was known and suppressed began to eat at the

townspeople, biting away at their restraint, anger nipping the edge off of their fear, feeding their hatred with silent words. Terror lit in mothers' eyes,

their hands clawlike on their children's shoulders, clutching them mutely, as though sinew and flesh could hold back the tide of metal and fire that

burned in the capital. Fathers' with shoulders bent form mining sunk lower, spirits broken like bones, seething with quiet rage.

A child, too young to understand, yet old enough to feel the raw hatred on the air, began to whimper, and was quickly shushed.


	2. Goodbye

Dean clasped his hands together, feeling the lukewarm sweat stick them together as he tapped his foot, the chair hard beneath him. Tapping his feet, he watched the slow tick of the clock. It had been minutes since the doors had slammed and silence had enveloped the two tributes. He'd paced at first, his jacket hanging open, one hand tugging through his short hair until it stood on end. Pacing had only fed the electric buzing in his veins, the tips of his fingers numb. Slamming his fist into the wall had done no good, only prompting the soldiers to confine him to a chair. The blood curdled on his knukles as he watched.

Cassandra had been taken into another room, her silent, uneffected demeanor creating a sickned stir in the soldiers. She stood, hands clasped, feet shoulder length apart, eyes boring into the thin wooden door in front of her. Her clothes hugged her unmoving form, defining muscles honed in the mines, hiding nerves frayed and burning, though she never so much as twitched. The door slammed open as her father was escorted in, gaurds flanking the exit. He nodded at her, eyes swimming with fear and anger. Pride swung heavy in chest as she met his eyes, her stance unchanged. Taking a step forward, he placed a worn palm on her shoulder, watching as her eyes twitched to his, meeting them for hardly a moment, yet it was long enough for her fear and rage to twirl on the air, tangible, before it was cut off, the ice queen once again residing high in her palace, watching aloof, eyes fixed again on the door. Chuck kissed her cheek, and she flinched, unused to the gesture.

"Give em' hell."

It was the only thing he dared say, as everything else welled behind the damn. He had no doubts that this was the last time he would see her. She had been the least promising of her siblings, always off on some half-bent quest to bring equality to the world. _There was never a place for a bleeding heart like yours, anyway _he thought, finally removing his hand.

"I will" Her choked whisper threatened to give way to tears, and though hardened by people and age, her soul screamed in agony at the unfairness of it all. Chuck nodded a slight smile at her before disappearing behind a wall of soldiers leading him away.

Dean sat. hunched, his hands still clasped together when Sam entered the room. Standing quickly, he drew the attention of the soldiers, who clasped their weapons tightly and stared in his direction.

"Sammy" Dean shook his head, a grim smile crawliong across his cheeks, hollow resignation taking flight in his hazel eyes.

"Dean" Sam's voice was scratched at the air, clawing it's way out of throat, raspy and soaked in anguish, it belied his earlier antics.

Dean said nothing, shoving his hands in his jean pockets, rocking back and forward on his heels, stunned into silence at the notion that this was possibly the last time he would ever speak to his brother. Lunging forward, he pulled Sam into a quick hug.

Sam shook in response, holding on to Dean like a life raft as his sanity tumbled about, fraying at the edges with each step Dean took towards death.

Awkwardly moving his hands on Sam's back, he became accustomed to being hugged, though he'd only seen the gesture in passing. Laughter bubbled in his stomach, twirling up his throat, hysteria was a quiet type of comfort, like earplugs in a snowstorm, blocking the screaming wind, if only for a moment. The chill still swept through his veins, his muscles encased in ice as he frantically struggled to get free, Sam's affection a chokehold on his hysteric chill, his madness struck down by Sams' proximity.

"I need to get going" The words left his throat in a flurry, ice cracking on each syllable.

Sam stepped back, pain blazing in his eyes, his adams aple bobbing like a growing flame.

"D-Dean, this could be our last-"

Sam clenched his fists, veins swimming over knuckles, the skin around them blazing like fire.

Dean held his ground, staring up at Sam, his eyes locked on his, anger chilling the room.

Clenching his jaw, Sam resigned, shoulders sinking like a dying flame. His chin trembled, quickly quenched by Dean's icy glare.

"Bitch" Sam cracked out, his voice crackling and popping as he spoke.

"Jerk" Dean's response was soft, snowy and raspy, falling on the edge of hysteria, his words rapping on the top of an iced-over river, risking the possiblity of rapids at any moment.

Soldiers burst into the room, grabbing Sam by the tops of his arms and dragging him out of the room. Icy claws dug into Dean's spine as Sam was drug out. He held his ground, feet planted in the ground though years of brotherhood tore at his stomach, begging him to say goodbye.

_Goodbye, Sam_

The thought hardly graced his thoughts and had no time to cross his lips before the doors slammed shut, leaving him alone.


End file.
